


Take Me Home, London Roads

by Imjusthereforfun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjusthereforfun/pseuds/Imjusthereforfun
Summary: Sherlock pulls an independent sting operation and John has to clean up his mess, as always.





	Take Me Home, London Roads

The automatic doors delayed opening just a hair as John entered St. Bart’s, but instead of heading to the morgue, as he normally did when going in after Sherlock, he headed to the toxicology department. He had a bag with a pair of sweatpants and a grey t-shirt tucked under his right arm and a frown firmly planted on his face. The nurse at the desk immediately recognized him and pointed him to the correct room.

According to Lestrade, Sherlock had gotten himself kidnapped by a sex trafficking ring. He had planned ahead and planted a tracker on himself for Scotland Yard to follow, but had not anticipated that they would drug him to keep him compliant. And that was how John found Sherlock: compliant and inordinately quiet.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

The curly-haired man was wearing a standard issue hospital gown, his previous clothing having been collected as evidence in the case against the trafficking ring. A pretty nurse was checking his reflexes and from across the room, John could tell that Sherlock was failing the test spectacularly. Normally, Sherlock would argue about such trivial matters, but now he was trying to follow the nurse’s orders as he swung various limbs about for inspection and followed a finger as she held it up in front of his eyes. It was a testament to just how affected Sherlock was that he didn’t even notice John enter the room until he was standing at his bedside opposite the nurse.

“What did you do now?”

Sherlock’s face lit up as though he had just learned the meaning of life, discovered the Holy Grail, and made the perfect cup of tea, all at the same time. “John! You found me!”

“Of course I found you, Greg called me to pick you up because it seems you went and got yourself drugged out of your mind.”

“Who’s Greg?” John ignored this question, instead directing his attention to the nurse across the bed.

“What’s the situation with this one? Can he go home?” The nurse quietly explained that Sherlock was out of any danger, but would need to be kept hydrated and monitored over the next couple of hours as the drugs fully made their way out of their system. The indignant squawking noise Sherlock made as he heard that he might have to stay in the hospital for a couple more hours, though at odds with his compliant behavior only minutes earlier, pacified John’s worry. John agreed to keep an eye on him, helped Sherlock change into the clothes he had brought with him, and walked with him as the detective was wheelchaired out of the hospital.

The cab ride home was uneventful. Sherlock simply watched London pass, the streetlights turning on as day turned into evening, though the hustle and bustle of the city did not cease.  
As Sherlock unfolded himself from the cab, John handed the cabbie the fare, not having to pay the extra tip he normally gave to drivers who had to deal with Sherlock. This one simply got to hear Sherlock’s occasional comment on the on-goings of Londoners in the tamest game of observations John had ever experienced. Most cabbies learned their wife was leaving them, their child was dropping out of university, or some other horrible fact of life that Sherlock would explain was based on the picture attached to the dashboard or the text that came in during their ride.

Mrs. Hudson was on her way to the shops as Sherlock wove his way up the front steps, and this un-inhibited Sherlock quickly gathered her into a hug, the most blatant show of affection John and Mrs. Hudson had ever seen out of the man in public. Without saying a word, the detective continued his way into the flat, leaving John to explain to Mrs. Hudson that no, Sherlock was not dying nor had he lost his sanity (though it could very easily be argued that Sherlock had never had any sanity) but was only suffering the aftereffects of a kidnapping and yes, he was fine. Mrs. Hudson promised to pop up for a bit with tea after dinner to check on them, and acquiesced to John’s request that she pick up a pack of bland crackers while she was out.

Sherlock moved faster than John had though possible in his state and was already in the living room by the time John closed the front door behind him. Rather than risk Sherlock disrupt an experiment in his altered state or break something by his lack of coordination, John quickly herded him into the bedroom.

John bundled Sherlock into bed, tucking the quilt in neatly and efficiently against the slow movements of the bed’s occupant. Sherlock’s movements were obviously taking the detective much more thought than normal as he shuffled further under the covers. The drugs had started to wear off, but Sherlock’s coordination was still greatly suffering and it seemed that the contented quieter portion of the evening was over as John returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea.

“John, why are you here? Why are you always here? You shouldn’t be here.”

John wasn’t sure how to take that and would have let it go, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t in his right state of mind (though, was Sherlock ever really in a right state of mind?), but Sherlock kept rambling along the same path, slightly protesting as John handed him the mug of tea and guided it to his mouth.

“What do you mean I shouldn’t be here? The nurse said that you needed to be monitored at least a couple more hours and since you didn’t want to stay at Bart’s, I’m your best option. Unless you’d like me to call Mycroft?”

Sherlock sputtered at the thought. “Oh my god, John. Don’t be ridiculous. You could do better than this. Babysitting me because I was too stupid to stop…”

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” A military edge sharpened John’s words, showing his anger at the words and surprising Sherlock enough that his drugged ramblings ceased. “We will have this conversation in the morning.”

Sherlock just nodded, though the last nod was cut short as his head lolled back onto his pillow. John smiled softly, pulled the mostly empty mug out of limp hands, and pushed the lanky man away from him, onto his right side again, not thinking it likely that Sherlock would asphyxiate this long after the drugging but not wanting to take the chance. Not understanding what exactly the doctor was doing, Sherlock tried to turn onto his back, and John put a hand up to stop him. His palm came to rest on Sherlock’s waist just below his ribcage. John could feel the heat Sherlock gave off through the thin cotton t-shirt he was wearing and was loathe to remove his hand.

“You’re sleeping in recovery position for at least a little while.”

“But I don’t want to. Stay here with me.” His voice was petulant, which wasn’t a change from, well, most of the time, but there was a guilelessness that rarely entered Sherlock’s facade. Sherlock didn’t look back at John but raised his left arm across his chest to rest it on John’s hand, still absorbing warmth on Sherlock’s side.

“For Christ’s sake.” John slipped his hand from Sherlock’s, quickly shrugged off his jacket and sat on his side of the bed. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep, but I need to shower eventually. I haven’t changed since my shift at the clinic and can feel all those little germs on me.”

“You regularly chase the lowlifes of London through sewers.” Sherlock argued, his speech slurred but John knew it was just because Sherlock was losing the battle with sleep. “You can handle a few germs.”

“I don’t know about that, sometimes I think the clinic is the more dangerous job.” But Sherlock didn’t hear the last few words as he drifted off, his hand still unconsciously clutching his t-shirt where John’s hand had been.

\-----

Sherlock came back to the world about three hours later. The curtains across the window that looked out onto Baker Street were pulled tight, so the only glow came from the bedside lamp behind him. He heard the turn of a page and when he tried to roll onto his back, he met resistance, with a knee resting between his shoulder blades, impeding his backward movement. He heard the dry turn of a page. Sherlock huffed, but quickly succumbed to sleep again.

\-----

Sherlock briefly awoke later, but he had no clue how long it had been. This time, when he tried to roll onto his back, nothing stopped him and he stared up at the ceiling. Again, the lamp at his bedside lit the room, and a beam from the slightly ajar bedroom door indicated that the hallway light was also on. He heard soft whisperings before he heard soft footsteps head down the stairs, saw the beam of light widen then disappear as the hall light was extinguished, and felt the bed behind him sink and someone sat on the edge, near his hip. “You didn’t stay,” he said gruffly.

“I was here when you fell asleep. Mrs. Hudson popped up before she went to bed and oh so kindly offered to watch you for a minute while I took a shower.” Sherlock glanced over and noticed that John had indeed showered, the ends of his silver-gold hair dark with moisture. The shorter man was also wearing sleep pants and an old rugby shirt. “Feeling better? It’s about midnight so everything should basically be out of your system at this point. I had Mrs. Hudson pick up some crackers while she was out so if your stomach feels a bit off, they are on your bedside table”

“She’s going to complain about not being my babysitter or personal shopper now.” Sherlock said fondly, “and yes, everything feels normal again.”

“Yes, she is. But she’s heading back down so we don’t have to hear about it until at least the morning. Now budge up.” John was obviously satisfied that Sherlock was telling the truth. Sherlock had learned long ago that when it came to his health, it was better to just tell John the truth rather than let him find out from his files, Lestrade, or, god-forbid, Mycroft.

Sherlock felt John’s side of the bed sink and heard him settling under the quilt. It was John’s side of the bed, as it had for over a year.

“You realize that you are going to get the scolding of your life in the morning. If I thought it would have its desired effect, I would give it to you now.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Sherlock smirked, dropping his voice lower. He glanced over at John, who sighed in exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Just shut up.” Before Sherlock could respond, John quickly turned away from Sherlock, turning off the lamp and sending the room into darkness. He settled into his pillow, back still facing away from Sherlock, but from the set of his shoulders, Sherlock could tell that his doctor wasn’t completely furious with him. He took that as an invitation to sidle up behind John, curling himself around the doctor’s back and draping an arm over his waist and across his chest. John’s hand came up to rest on Sherlock’s hand, hugging the detective closer as he lifted his head for Sherlock to slide his other arm forward, under his pillow. They would eventually wake up back-to-back, but both needed the comfort of holding the other close.

“They caught the human traffickers, and their ring led to another ring out of Germany that the NCA had been working on for years.” John begrudgingly told Sherlock. “Greg called about an hour ago.” Sherlock silently preened, pleased with the results but uncomfortable with the fact that he’d had to go behind John’s back to pull off the sting operation. John would have objected outright and not let him do it. “We’ll talk in the morning.” And with that, the doctor drifted off to sleep in an instant, a power granted by medical school and military service.

Sherlock knew John wasn’t going to tell him to stop his detective work in the morning, nor was he going to leave. It would be another talk about how Sherlock couldn’t keep taking so many risks and that eventually all those risks were going to catch up with him. But John would never ask Sherlock to outright stop. That wasn’t how their relationship worked.

Sherlock had his work and John. He would continue to chase criminals and hunt down bad guys while strictly claiming that while he was no angel. And when he got in over his head, John would always be at his side.

John had his work and Sherlock. He would continue to work in the clinic, healing the little ailments of London, but when a larger issue erupted, he always rose to the occasion magnificently.

And somehow it worked and that was fine. It was all fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Report for slight editing! Thanks for reading!


End file.
